


The mirror's a scary place

by elviehun



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Dry Humping, Geraskier, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Mess, M/M, No beta we break down like lutes, OR IS IT, Pining, Plot What Plot, Self-Pity, Sorry I say Fuck a lot, Unrequited Crush, but I love him, i have sinned, idek, kind of, semmi-accidental orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24809383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elviehun/pseuds/elviehun
Summary: It shouldn't even feel this good; it's just skin-warmed leather on skin-warmed velvet, some rubbing and loads of desperate touch-deprivation. Not even real contact. So fucking pathetic, that it feels this unbearably good, good, so good, raw and merciless, as if each slick little movement peeled off a layer of how his skin normally feels at a touch, until all that's left of him was a pile of trembling, stark naked, blissed-out nerve cells.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 81





	The mirror's a scary place

**Author's Note:**

> Title somewhat freely borrowed from our own Joey Almighty.  
> Guys, I know it's an underestimation to say that this is but a snippet. I was going to make it a set of three one-shots, and when I first uploaded it I promise you I had a Plan.  
> But then the second one came along, and I was struggling with book!Geralt and show!Geralt CONSTANTLY screaming at each other in my fucked-up head so I scraped it back. And of course when I tried to make amends with the boys the story decided to take a whole other route. And it hasn't yet taken the form of any publishable work, so I have no idea what happens to that.  
> Long story short: I'm leaving this as it is for now. I'm not even sure it's considered as smut. It's hanging half-broken and it's honestly quite wretched, but I'm somehow convinced the poor miserable thing still wants to live.  
> I'm sorry I guess...?
> 
> So, Jaskier is weak and wanting, the helpless victim of Geralt's unspeakable magnificence, etc., the usual situation. One-shot.

The proof that it really _was_ a bad idea to accept Geralt's offer to get on the horse behind him, as the light was fading - is the unmistakeable tightening in the muscles around his crotch. Muscle memory, huh?

He knows this sensation - the friction on just this side of the fine line between pleasure and pain -, he knows it too well, having had to rut desperately against his sleeping bag so many nights, watching Geralt, huge and dormant and smoky-scented and devastatingly arousing, at the opposite side of the fire, and never daring to give into it, to palm himself properly, to find the right angle, the just-right pace, yet still feeling the urge that _never_ takes no for an answer; and the more aware he is of what's happening, the more tense said muscles become.

And he's getting hard. He should put an end to this. If he had any dignity left, he would tell Geralt to stop, and get off Roach's back immediately. But dignity is a luxury he is short of ever since he laid eyes on the White Wolf in that cursed boozer in Posada. And Gods help him, he's sitting with his thighs spread wide around Geralt's leather-clad ass, feeling the Witcher's muscles shifting for balance and instinctively adjusting to Roach's each step, and he has no idea what this friction does to Jaskier's cock; and Jaskier's getting hard, _hard_ , _hard_. It shouldn't even feel _this_ good; it's just skin-warmed leather on skin-warmed velvet, some rubbing and loads of desperate touch-deprivation. Not even real contact. So fucking pathetic, that it feels this unbearably good, _good, so good,_ raw and merciless, as if each slick little movement peeled off a layer of how his skin normally feels at a touch, until all that's left of him was a pile of trembling, stark naked, blissed-out nerve cells.

Geralt _hmph_ s at a muddy creek, deciding it's not worth the effort to camp by it, and Jaskier's cock _jumps_ , literally twitches at the sheer vibration of it. A grunt. One fucking _grunt_. Jaskier can't help but imagine what this _hmph_ could do to his sanity if resonating right _into_ his skin, at the nape of his neck, the crook of his elbow, behind his _balls_. Son. of a filthy. goddamn... He sucks his lower lip hard, savoring the sour-metallic-salty taste on his tongue, the strange but now familiar forerunner of a helpless and monumental orgasm he wants so _, so, so much_.

There's no way he can let this pass now. Not now, when the waves have already started to wash over him. He has no choice in the matter, it feels too bloody fabulous. Fuck _everything_ , including Geralt noticing the wet patch of cum this will end with. He needs it, with each tiny, half-conscious movement he needs the next one a little bit more, and shit, he can already see the end approaching, little sparks glinting off the edge of his vision. He is almost panting now, choking on his moans, seconds before his release, and not even trying to control the twitching of his hips, because if he moves, it gets even _better_ , oh shit, _mmnnnh_ , _more_ , _yes, just once_ _more._ He half-thinks something along the lines of _there's no way Geralt hasn't noticed, or smelled, or felt it_ , and he has no idea why he hasn't stopped him or shoved him right off Roach's back. _How very me,_ he thinks with semi-conscious irony, _to come my fucking brains out after three minutes of sharing a ride with_ _him._ But this, this wanton hunger takes no prisoners, and Jaskier is weak and wanting, _always_ wanting, and always him. He's all but crashing into it, rubbing and rutting into the gorgeous friction. He can hear himself wheezing. _Fuck, if he utters a single word, hmms a single sound, I swear I'm going to detonate_. And, of course, proving that fate has quite a queer sense of humour, the Witcher chooses this exact moment to state:  
"I have a spare blanket. You're shivering." -and _damn, YES, yes, yes_ , his gruff tone is hiding such obvious care and affection, he'd be a fool not to see that, and _Aaaah, fuck yes._ He's done, the blinding pleasure is paralyzing _and_ making him twitch miserably at the same time, and with silent writhing he comes and comes and comes against his own trousers.

His breathing sounds more like muffled sobs, mouth pressed into his own right shoulder, trying to normalize his heartrate. Holy fucking cows, did he just...? Was it as obvious as he felt it was?  
The whole thing feels surreal, as he slowly recovers himself, the forest around him a whirlwind of chirps and crackles and hoofbeats and his own heaving, and it'so overwhelming, the improbability of the experience, the bliss of the afterglow and the crippling shame and the dread of facing Geralt after this gross little episode; that he can't help but bury his burning face between Geralt's damp shoulderblades, afraid he might pass out. - No - he manages to choke out, but then Geralt inhales through his nose suddenly, sharply, and turns his head to look at him.

-Everything... all right?

  
_Oh, certainly, darling Wolf, splendid. Splendid, really. Absolutely spectacular_. What the hell is he supposed to say now?  
-Nah, just... Just a bit tired, that's all. It's not the cold, but... thanks. - So, if his voice is slightly shaky, no need to wonder why, right? - How about... settling for the night? I could use some sleep. - he sounds off, even to his own ears, but that's the best he can do right now.  
-Likewise. Need to find the creek, though.- Geralt's brows draw together, the sudden gentle concern on his face makes Jaskier ache somewhere beyond the boundaries of his own body, a taut pull between foolish hope and exasperation, and he has to swallow, hard. - Soon, alright? Five more minutes, if my nose doesn't betray me.  
-Never does - Jaskier sighs and grabs Geralt's shoulders for support as Roach ambles on towards the invisible creek.

  
And Geralt...

  
Geralt doesn't seem to mind.


End file.
